


i'll never know

by chalamet



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Established Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8532619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalamet/pseuds/chalamet
Summary: No synonym for attractive or gorgeous or stunning could ever compare to how much I adore how he looks, how he speaks, how he is. I love him—inside and out, I love him."I love you."It only occurs to me that we've never said those words to each other after I've blurted them out.





	

The bedroom is quiet, save the soft chirping of the birds outside and the hushed rustling of the wind blowing through the leaves of the tree in the backyard. I always open the window before retiring to bed with Brendon—I know he likes to wake up to the serene sounds of nature flooding into the room.

He doesn't sleep over at my place often, so I try to make it as enjoyable as I can for him when he does. I, of course, like to enjoy it as well, which is why I'm still laying in bed, taking great pleasure in watching him doze.

It may sound a bit strange, me watching him sleep, but he's all too beautiful and it hurts to turn away from him. When he sleeps, he appears peaceful and innocent, so much so that it's hard to believe that I'm not staring into the face of an angel. His hair has fallen into his face, but I don't brush it behind his ear in fear that he'll wake. It's covering a small portion of his pink, parted lips and his delicately closed eyes. He looks achingly pretty—always does—and I yearn for him, despite him being laid out right in front of me.

As usual, I get lost in his beauty, and it almost surprises me when his eyes flutter open, and his mouth slowly pulls into a gentle smile.

No synonym for attractive or gorgeous or stunning could ever compare to how much I adore how he looks, how he speaks, how he _is_. I love him—inside and out, I love him.

"I love you."

It only occurs to me that we've never said those words to each other after I've blurted them out.

I feel my cheeks turn warm as I stare at him staring at me. My mouth is moving, trying to form an excuse for what I've admitted, but no words escape my throat. However, I soon realize that no excuse will do as I watch his beautiful body tense, his lips parting wider and his eyes minutely widening. He's trying to conceal his shock, and it's not working, because I can tell. I wish I couldn't, but I can.

I sputter, and stop, and sputter again, forcing out broken words.

"No, I mean- Bren, that's not-"

"Stop."

He cuts me off, and I know I've made a mistake—hell, it's a lot more than a mistake. I search his eyes for something, for anything. His expression turns from one of poorly-concealed shock to a blank, expressionless one, and stays that way, until I see a glint of something in his eyes, the tug of a certain emotion at the corner of his lips.

Sadness. Pity, even.

He frowns, and my heart chips, as if he's chiseling away at it.

" _Ryan_."

He says my name forcefully, with no warmth, and just like that, my heart breaks, cracking into two pieces. Cut clean through the middle with a powerful whack of his chisel.

I don't know how to respond to his words, but he doesn't continue speaking. He won't, not until I say something, so the words on the tip of my tongue escape.

"Say it back. _Please_."

It's much too desperate, and much too sad, especially because I know he won't. He won't say it back. He doesn't love me, and I don't want to let that sink in—I won't let it sink in. I can't.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, sounding remorseful, destroying what little hope I had in two words. An apology, and it does nothing, heals nothing. If anything, it only adds to how much I'm hurting. He doesn't love me. I love him with all my heart, and he doesn't love me. He has nothing to say but an apology that will never do.

"Me too."

And what am I sorry for?

For saying that I love him, for telling him the truth? For all the mornings that I've longingly admired him, waiting for him to wake, just so I could wish him a good morning? For ever looking his way in the first place, for ever talking to him, for ever agreeing to let him take me out on a date?

What does it matter what I'm sorry for? What does my love matter now that I know it's unrequited? What do all those mornings matter now that there will never be another one? What does our relationship matter now that he'll never want to speak to me, to see me, to think of me ever again?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

I'll never know.


End file.
